


Oneirophobia

by Mx_Dragon



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Needles, Oral Sex, Other, Selfcest, Wet Nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Dragon/pseuds/Mx_Dragon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Oneirophobia

Doctor Jonathan Crane rarely sleeps. There is always so much work, after all: research to conduct, subjects and funds to procure, connections to cultivate, future Arkham escapes to plan. And when he does have time, it’s only logical to shoot for the most restful sleep possible. A barbiturate oblivion, too deep for dreams, is more than enough to make up for time lost.

That is the story he tells himself. Because in those dreams of his, there is no light.

Yet the darkness is not complete. It pulsates with silent movement, the slow, earnest, two-footed stalking of a malformed body whose angled limbs are all too familiar. He always tries to shut his eyes and whimpers to himself when he cannot. With a terrible certainty, he knows this is no hallucination; he must meet those bright, cruel eyes, so like his. But no matter how he turns in uneasy circles, heart pounding, trying to follow the only feature in the shifting gloom, he somehow never sees the beast draw closer.

A hard, sudden shove, curved claw-tips tearing thin wet lines into the fragile skin of his chest. Crane falls back with a yelp and sprawls. He longs to stand, run, even curl up into a ball. But his body is heavy with frost. He can only tremble on the dank ground, a low sob of terror and hideous anticipation in his throat at the edge of each heaving breath.

Inhuman strength made of straw and burlap and bone, reeking of graveyard earth and all, all, all around the faint acrid tang of fear toxin forces itself between his gracelessly splayed legs, pressing against him in a way that makes his muscles flare with adrenaline. Crane gasps and suddenly he’s screaming, thrashing to thrust up no get free no _touch_ no _run—_

A rough, long-fingered hand jerks his head up, claws pricking a warning into the soft flesh of his face and throat. The beast’s other arm winds tight around his back. But it’s those eyes, his own eyes, that pin him in place. They glitter with unspeakable promises that make his skin flush hot and cold all over. His throat closes; he shudders in the beast’s embrace, gulping for air, in agony to answer the question that its body and his body have somehow posed together.

“Sc…Scarecrow,” Crane gasps at last. “You’re Scarecrow…you’re me…please, let me—”

Then he stiffens, gut twisting. For the first time—yet for the thousandth time, because doesn’t he have this dream again and again?—he feels the long, delicate finger-syringes of the beast’s other hand against his back. Their stainless steel tips start to move...no, to caress. Just barely skimming his flesh. Forward and back, up and down. Teasing in circles. He shivers in a fever of sensation and terror, painfully aware that at the slightest provocation, Scarecrow could plunge those needles knuckle-deep into muscle. Pump him full of God knows what, break him down into something even weaker and more helpless than he already is.

A whine bursts from his throat, begging for a mercy he cannot, will not name. But Scarecrow doesn’t need to hear anything from Crane’s own lips. The beast lashed itself together long ago out of his basest emotions; it is clothed in his fear, sinewed with his anger and hunger and wounded pride. And if shame won’t permit Crane what he wants, then Scarecrow will.

Claws dig in under his jaw. The texture of the darkness—of _the mask_ —splits sideways into a limitless forest of yellowed fangs. A bloody, glistening, ropelike tongue arches out from beyond the teeth, down to...

Crane’s voice crescendos into a scream when warm, wet muscle curls tight around his cock. Immediately it starts stroking, fast and violent, tearing pleasure from his veins by force. It’s almost too much. He’s panting, dizzy, drunk on fear and revulsion and aching heat and deep, relentless arousal that have all somehow become one. But at the same time, it’s not enough. Could never be enough. He writhes in earnest, desperate, already so close, and gives a strange, throaty cry when Scarecrow’s dripping needles stab deep into his back.

He can’t resist. He has no control. He doesn’t know if the Scarecrow impaled him or if he did it to himself—drove his own body down like a sacrifice. And he’s past caring now, because the fear and the pain and the pleasure are all flowing into him from every side and Scarecrow’s twisted eyes _burn._ Always promising more, no matter how much he’s already had.

His orgasm tears through him in pulse after merciless pulse, as mortal and terrifying as torture.

When it’s over he sags in the beast’s arms, his throat raw, his body spent and shivering. Needles slick with poisoned blood drag free from stiff muscle—Crane moans with nausea, agony, needy disappointment—and splay harmlessly flat across his back. Scarecrow cradles him in its arms. Slowly, gently, that awful tongue licks him clean. Takes his filth into its own. He hates that he can’t stop himself from watching.

He hates even more that it feels _good;_ he’s already getting hard again and he wants to let his head fall back, suck on the clawed thumb that has slipped into his mouth. Wants to taste the blood it will draw from his tongue—God forbid, he wants to give in to this creature. To fear, fury, sadistic satisfaction, the desire for power. As if he hasn’t already given in, each and every time he pulls on his mask.

“You liked that,” Scarecrow mutters. It’s so close that Crane can feel its dry, starving grin against his cheek. But though its voice is guttural, raspy with weather and age and Crane’s own screams, it has no breath to brush his clammy skin. “You liked that more than anything, Jonathan.”

That is when Crane gasps awake, aching in too many places to count, sticky with cold sweat and thick, warm come, and learns for the thousandth time that Scarecrow is right. That Scarecrow is always right.

Which, in turn, is why Doctor Jonathan Crane rarely sleeps.


End file.
